Dress Blues and Gold Badges
by windscryer
Summary: There were so many reasons why they shouldn't. Which pretty much made it inevitable they would. Jassie.
1. Piecrust Promises

For Styles, my commiseratory chat-buddy.

This will be a series of Jassie one-shots, potentially connected though I make no promises, pie-crust or otherwise.

I also make no guarantees as to update frequency. Sorry. D:

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Summary: When she said it, she didn't know it was a pie-crust promise. Easily made, easily broken.

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There are days I think I made a mistake.

Okay that came out wrong.

I make mistakes all the time. I'm not perfect. I know that. But there's one in particular, that I'm beginning to regret.

Once upon a time I told Detective Carlton Lassiter that I didn't believe in interoffice romances.

(To be fair to myself, I did mean it. And I still kind of do.)

They wreak all sorts of havoc, especially when you work together as closely as partners. And as cops, they can be dangerous. Distraction on a stakeout—either because you're fighting or because you're definitely _not_ fighting—is one of the most unprofessional—and dangerous—things you can do wrong in this job. And hesitation?

It can be a killer. Literally.

Like right now. I _should_ be focused on the bad guy and how I'm going to stop him,but I'm just a little distracted.

(Okay, I've been distracted for a long time, but right now it's particularly bad.)

Because I should be focusing on how to disarm or distract the psychopath currently sitting in my sights. And all I can think about is where his gun is pointed.

(That would be straight at Carlton's heart. With Carlton's gun on the floor between them.)

I could shoot, but could I do it fast enough that Carlton wouldn't get shot too? I don't know.

I want to draw his attention my way, but I'm frozen. There's something particularly paralytic about seeing the man you only recently admitted to yourself that you love in mortal danger. This is worse than the first scenario in the academy.

My mouth is dry. My hands are beginning to shake. My knees are slowly turning to jelly.

"Stop."

I whisper it so softly _I_ can barely hear it. But I have to do it. I have to draw his attention my way. It's the only thing I _can_ do.

I glance at Carlton and take a precious moment to savor the image of him alive and not shot, just in case this fails.

_Oh please don't let me fail._

"Hey!" I yell suddenly. The gunman spins my way and I fire almost in the same breath as my shout.

It misses and I freeze as the muzzle of his gun points my way.

Now _I'm_ going to die.

The thought that at least it's me and not Carlton floats through my mind as I blink, expecting to be dead before it's over. There is a gunshot and I jump, but no agonizing pain floods my senses. The blink ends and I have to repeat it to confirm what I'm seeing isn't a dream.

The perp? Dead on the floor, his blood leaking out through the hole in the side of his head.

Carlton? Alive. Most definitely alive. And looking quite pissed.

Before I can even think about it I'm running, and then I tackle him, hanging on for dear sanity. If he had died it would have ended us both. I might have been physically still here, but mentally...

"O'Hara?" he says after a moment, sounding distinctly uncomfortable.

I can barely force my muscles to cooperate, but I let him go, cheeks flushed a cherry red. I can't help straightening his lapels.

"Sorry. I was just... um..."

"Yeah," he says, sounding like he'd really rather not continue the conversation.

Works for me. I'm not quite ready to reveal I made a mistake just yet either.

"I'll go call the clean up crew."

"You do that," he agrees.

I start to walk away, but have to turn back at the door to the warehouse and look one more time. He's bent down, looking at the man he just killed.

For me.

Well, okay, yeah, he did, but that sounds way more cheesy than it really is. Oh well. It will have to do.

For now.

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Review, please and thanks!


	2. Do Nots and Donuts

Okay, so, apparently I have a second Muse whose job is solely to provide me with Jassie ficlets. Yeah, I dunno where she came from either. Oh well! Enjoy!

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Summary: He'd been doing so well. She didn't suspect a thing. And then there was a bust stakeout and donuts and a sweater.

Damn that sweater.

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Carlton checked his watch and then glanced up at the darkened building across the street.

Yeah, there was no one coming for a midnight meeting. Spencer's 'spirits' were wrong. Again.

He glanced over at his partner, smiling slightly at the tiny snores buzzing from her nose. A moment's debate and he decided to let her sleep. He'd wake her when they got to her house.

He turned on the car, wincing when the engine cranked loudly, but O'Hara just rolled her head to the other side and snuffled, lips smacking indelicately as she resettled. He reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face, then rethought that idea and pulled back.

Expression grim, he faced forward and gripped the wheel with both hands to keep either of them from straying over to her side of the car again.

What the hell was wrong with him anyway?

Blondes did not, as a rule, catch his eye. Call it prejudice, accuse him of stereotyping, but he'd lived here in southern California his whole life and known a lot of blondes, well, stereotypes existed for a reason. Most blondes he encountered were naturally dumb as a post—or the victim of bottled brain damage.

He couldn't stand either one.

But for some reason, when said blonde was his partner—and female, of course, because yeah, he was definitely the kind of guy to appreciate a nice pair of legs leading up to an even nicer ass and he _especially_ appreciated a nice—

Anyway.

He liked girls.

Women. Of the appropriate age and maturity.

But he didn't usually like blondes.

Unless the two were combined into the one person he had to spend most of his time with—and who was also the least available to him.

Technically.

That hadn't stopped him with Lucinda, but, well, he figured _that_ was an aberration. She had just come out of a bad breakup and he was in the middle of an unpleasant separation and... well, even _he_ was capable of making mistakes.

On occasion.

_Anyway._

He'd assumed that Lucinda was a fluke. Timing and the fact that Tori leaving him was messing with his head and the stress of work all combined to cause his judgment to take a little detour off the strait and narrow.

And then O'Hara had shown up, a month after Lucinda transferred.

He'd had a partner, of course, because he was Head Detective and therefore expected to help train the junior ranks. But Chief had swapped Polanski out for O'Hara within a day of her arrival in town.

And that was the thing.

It wasn't that he was attracted to blonde female _cops_. He'd pondered that, assuming that their being a cop filtered out the idiots—mostly—and that was why he made the exception, but Karen was blonde and female and a cop and he didn't feel anything even remotely like attraction to her.

Sorensen down in booking was the same way. Close to his age, female as they came, and intelligent enough to make her one of the people he actually didn't mind talking to at a department social function. Her hair was as blonde as wheat, but she did nothing for his libido. Not even a flutter.

Of course, she was competition on the dating front, not a prospective partner, so maybe that was it.

He stopped for a red light and saw the light was still—or _already_ more likely—on at the Dunkin' Donuts and made a split second decision to pull in and get some coffee and maybe a cruller or two.

He'd drop O'Hara off so she could grab some sleep before their shift started in three hours, but he had to go over reports and try to figure out where Patterly was going to be next.

Maybe he'd go ask their 'psychic'.

His lips curved in a smile at that thought. Spencer had probably been asleep about as long as O'Hara, he guessed, glancing at his watch again as he cut the engine.

O'Hara stirred when the engine shut off and Carlton winced.

Damn. He'd been hoping that wouldn't happen.

She blinked and pushed to a more upright position, looking around in sleepy confusion.

"Where—" A yawn cut her off and Carlton had to swallow and look away.

How did women look so incredible right upon waking up? Men—himself included—usually just looked like they'd been hit with a two-by-four.

Not freshly tumbled and sexy as hell.

And it was really time he was getting out and going for donuts now.

"I just stopped for coffee—"

"Ooooh," she slurred in a sleep-husky voice. "Cooooffeeee. Mmmm." She blinked languidly and smiled softly as she turned and pawed at the door.

He rolled his eyes in an effort to hide his stupid grin.

Damn she was adorable when she just woke up.

And that was such an off limits topic. Okay. Time for coffee and donuts.

He got out and rounded the car, reaching out a hand to steady her when she stumbled out of the vehicle.

She chuckled and glanced up at him, a faint blush painting her cheeks. "My foot's asleep. Sorry. One second."

She held onto his arm and gave her right leg a vigorous shake, hissing and cursing as the blood flow returned painfully.

He kept her from falling and tried very hard to not focus on her hand on his arm, the warm spot it created that seeped through his shirt, suit coat, _and_ overcoat.

She made a face and gingerly lowered her foot, straightening after a moment. "Thanks," she said with a smile and squeezed his arm.

"You're welcome," he said. It was stiff and formal and oh man he had it _bad_.

He hurried ahead to the door and opened it, hoping to slip back into his normal professional manner, but apparently his feet had other ideas because they stopped just inside, turned, and waited while his arm held the door open for her.

Who the hell was running this show anyway?

She smiled again and said, "Thank you, Carlton," and his heart gave an unsteady lurch.

Well, that answered _that_ question, didn't it?

Fortunately the business of ordering coffee and donuts passed in relative normalcy.

If you didn't count the way he was hyper-aware of her the entire time.

In a bakery-type facility, you'd think the smells of sugar and yeast and other baked good type things would be overwhelming. Not to mention the fresh brewed coffee percolating behind the counter.

But no.

No, those scents were only background notes to her perfume. Something flowery with a hint of exotic spice he couldn't _quite_ place.

And she hummed.

She hummed a lot actually.

Pretty much anytime they were standing around waiting and she got lost in thought, she'd start humming. He was not nearly enough of a music connoisseur to guess what the tunes were, but he liked the sound of them anyway.

When she got distracted by her thoughts, her whole body got into the act, fingers drumming on her leg or the counter, foot tapping the floor, head giving the occasional bob.

He loved to watch it—from the corner of his eye usually so as to not draw her notice and embarrass her into stopping.

This morning she wasn't _that_ awake, but she was humming nonetheless.

He collected their food and handed her her cup and she popped the top and inhaled deeply.

"Mmmm. Good morning, beautiful," she murmured, then sipped carefully at her triple caramel macchiato with cinnamon and whipped cream.

Someone hated him. The fates, God, whoever was in charge, hated him.

Because she had a spot of whipped cream on her nose and, heaven help him, he wanted to clean it off.

His hand clenched and he resisted the urge, though he did manage to grit out, "O'Hara."

She looked up at him, wide eyes unguarded in her half-awake state and he had to swallow.

"You've got..." He gestured with his hand and she crossed her eyes and then swiped at the spot with her napkin, blushing furiously.

"Oops," she said, averting her gaze as she led the way back outside.

She was going to kill him.

She was.

Because she'd made it very clear how she felt about inter-office relationships—and by that, of course, it was meant that she'd stated explicitly that she didn't believe in or participate in them—and he found it harder and harder every day to not break that particular regulation.

He _wanted_ to respect her wishes. He really did.

But some days, he thought with a sigh, he wasn't sure he was going to survive that vow he'd made to himself.

Maybe he should just drop her off at home and tell her to take the day off. They'd been up all night on a stakeout, after all and he was senior partner.

He had that authority. If he thought her ability to do her job was compromised by her physical or mental state, he could send her home.

She said nothing as he drove home, her eyes hooded and her thoughts obviously turned inward as she drank her coffee.

He almost got in an accident when he glanced over and saw the tip of her tongue swipe over her lips to get rid of the foam that was left behind.

Which meant he wasn't talking either, because after that he recited the California Penal Code inside his head and focused on the roads.

He didn't even check his passenger side mirror for fear of what else he might see in his peripheral vision.

Finally—_finally_—he pulled up in front of her house and was able to shift into park.

He left his hands on the wheel because removing them would reveal the shaking tremors that were caused by not touching her.

He closed his eyes for a moment, made a mental note to talk to the Chief as soon as was socially and professionally acceptable about requesting a new partner, and then opened them again and turned to speak.

Juliet was already climbing out of the car.

Thank Lady Justice.

For the view as well as the lack of awkward conversation.

His head tilted slightly as she righted herself and then stood there, facing away as she checked her purse and adjusted her coat and did whatever the hell she was doing.

He couldn't complain really. Especially since he could look his fill without having to worry about getting caught.

Then she turned and he looked away, focusing out the front again.

"Well?" she said as she bent to duck her head into the car again. "Are you getting out or what?"

"Come again?" he said dumbly and turned to look at her.

Big mistake, right there. Her blouse under her suit coat was by no means revealing.

Until of course she bent forward and gravity took over, giving him a fantastically unobstructed view of her bra and the contents thereof.

Black lace was, somehow, not what he would have guessed for her to wear to work.

He realized suddenly what he was seeing and his eyes shot up, but she was just blinking at him and he was grateful to realize she was still not awake enough to notice what he was doing.

"Are you getting out?" she asked again.

He frowned, then realized she had the bag with the donut box in her hand.

Dammit.

Dammitdammitdammit.

"Um, I... really need to, uh, go over the case notes and—"

She arched an eyebrow and he began to wonder if she was as sleep-fuddled as he'd imagined.

"Carlton," she said slowly. "The case files are inside on my table. I am not a delivery service. So if you want them, you have to come get them."

That was a really bad time for his eyes to drop down those six or seven inches to where a bright pink silk bow marked the clasp of her bra.

"Uhhhh," he said intelligently.

"Lassiter!" she snapped.

His eyes jumped up again and he cringed in preparation for the verbal tongue lashing he certainly deserved. But she just glared and jerked her head toward her house, then shut the door and headed up the path.

He swallowed, eyes locked on her departing figure, then cursed and got out of the car. He was halfway up the walk before he realized he'd left the keys in and the engine running.

Cursing all the way, he ran back, turned off the car, removed the keys and managed to remember to lock the doors even.

By the time he reached the front door he'd... mostly gotten himself under control.

It wasn't like this was the first time he'd been in her house. Or worked with her while part of his brain was focused on non-work thoughts.

He could do this.

He just had to go inside, get the files, tell her to take her clothes— THE DAY. Take the DAY off, and then make his exit.

He resisted the urge to wipe his hand over his face and inhaled and exhaled deeply instead.

Which was somehow an even _worse_ idea.

Her house smelled like her, only much more intense. Which made sense since she _lived_ here, but—

"Carlton?"

He jumped and turned toward her dining room where she was standing next to the table, plate in hand with a donut on it that she was holding out.

"Your cruller with chocolate and sprinkles," she said, smiling.

"Oh, uh, thanks. Thank you. I'll just... uh..."

He started to shuck his coat and she set down the plate and came over, her hands reaching up to help him.

He closed his eyes and thought of traffic regulations.

She hung up his things and gestured to the table. "I'm actually kind of cold, so I think I'm going to put a sweater on. I'll be right back."

He bit his tongue to protest her putting on more clothes—this was a good thing, a VERY good thing—and nodded.

"I'll just..." He shut up and moved to the table.

She disappeared upstairs and he sent a look heavenward asking for strength—or a cardiac event that would require he go to the hospital immediately—and sat, pulling the nearest folder toward him and breaking off a bite of his donut.

Thankfully he was slightly more professional than his recent behavior would indicate and he was able to immerse himself in the details of the case once it was in front of his eyes—and when other more distracting things were not.

He was scowling when he heard her footsteps return and she said, "What's wrong?" as she pulled out a chair and folded a leg under herself.

He couldn't answer. He was too busy choking on his tongue.

She lied. She _lied_ to him.

That... that was not a sweater.

Sure, it had the general shape of a sweater—only, maybe a size or two too small—and it probably had the knit of a sweater—he couldn't really tell since it was cashmere and the fluffy, wispy, please-touch-me-now texture of it made that harder to see clearly—but who the hell made a sweater that fell off the shoulders and hung that low on her... assets?

He could say definitively that she had changed—or completely removed—her bra.

Any chance of his resuming work on the case in this house was gone. He needed to leave.

Now.

He started to gather up his things—or blindly scrape papers toward himself—and stammered whatever his blood-deprived brain could come up with for an excuse.

"—check at the station, and see if the, uh, the... reports! The forensic reports are in! Yes! And— And—"

"Carlton."

He froze and, after a moment to swallow a time or two, looked up.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I— Look, I respect you, O'Hara. As a person and as a cop and as my partner." He gulped and forced his eyes to meet hers.

"And that's why I have to kiss you." His face scrunched up and he mentally kicked himself. "LEAVE YOU! That's— That's why I have to _leave_ you."

"Carlton."

"I'll put in the request for a transfer first thing. I'm sorry. I really am. I thought I could handle it, I really, really did, O'Hara, but—"

She cut him off with her lips pressed to his.

He was hardly aware of her hands coming up to rest on his cheeks, so focused was he on her lips and her tongue and, oh _hell,_ she was going to kill him right here and now.

She slipped her tongue past his teeth and slid it up against his, tasting him as he returned the favor and tasted her, the cinnamon from her coffee the strongest flavor.

He was marginally more aware when she pressed her body to his, eliminating the spaces between them and making him very conscious of all the places they touched.

Her hands moved back as she kept kissing him, sliding up to tangle in his hair, her fingernails scratching his scalp.

He groaned low in his throat, the rational, responsible part of his brain fighting to surface and remind him of all the reasons this was a bad idea.

She must have sensed something because she pulled back—though she took her sweet time doing so—and when they were finally far enough apart to see each other without crossing eyes she said, "You need to relax."

"I..." he tried, but it stalled there. Her lips were plumped and red and he really wanted another taste of them.

"Carlton?"

His eyes rose to hers and the amusement was clear.

"Remember when I told you that I didn't believe in inter-office romances?"

He nodded and like a rush of cold water dropped on his head, he realized that this right now was pretty much the very definition of what she said she didn't want.

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to myself."

She pressed another soft kiss to the corner of his lips.

"And I think I've changed my mind."

He had half a second to wonder if that meant what he thought it meant when she slid an inch to the side and deepened the kiss.

After that, thinking seemed like a pretty bad idea.

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Review, plz&thx.

Especially if you want more. I need to know or the Muse might wander off. :D


	3. The Morning After Pill

Summary: Some days Lassiter hates Shawn. And other days he REALLY hates Shawn.

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"So!"

Carlton groaned and dropped his head into his hand.

"Not NOW, Spencer."

"Hey, I don't want—" He made a face. "—or_ need_ really—any details, but... did it go well?"

Carlton frowned. "Did what go well?"

"Dude! Your big night. La Casa de Romance de Lassiter!" He mimed dancing with a partner and did a few quick tango steps.

"Say it a little _louder_, Spencer, I don't think they heard you at the courthouse!" he hissed, looking around.

Shawn made a rude noise and waved him off. "Like no one knows? You either got lucky last night or you ODed on Red Bull, cause, dude, your shoes have _wings_ on them."

Shawn perched on the edge of the desk. "Besides, I didn't say WHO your big night was with. Hi, Jules!" he said and waved.

Carlton almost got whiplash spinning around.

She blushed, eyes briefly meeting his, but her voice was normal when she said, "Hello, Shawn. Morning, Carlton."

"Morning, O'Hara," he said, looking quickly at his desk, lest he be tempted to stand up and kiss that secret smile off of her face.

Shawn coughed and Carlton looked up to see the psychic jerking his head toward O'Hara and waggling his eyebrows.

"Spencer," he said quietly—dangerously, "do you have business to conduct here this morning?"

"Nope. Why?"

"Then I suggest you find yourself somewhere else to be. Now."

"Aw, come on, Lassie!"

O'Hara joined them then and in a quiet voice as she thumbed through a file said, "Shawn, I appreciate your assistance, but if you do not leave now, I will be severely tempted to shoot you." Her gaze came up, though her head stayed bent. "And not in the foot or the arm or even the heart. You'll live to regret it. A lot." She smiled sweetly. "Are we clear?"

He grinned, but his lips were twitching in that way that said he wasn't sure if it was a joke or not. His hands came up in the classic surrender pose and he backed away a step. "Crystal. Have fun you two and don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

"Shawn!" O'Hara snapped and Shawn turned and headed for the door at a run.

Carlton had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

O'Hara watched him go, with a scowl, then sat on the edge of the desk and smiled. "Forensics are in on the Hollis case."

"And?" he said, taking the folder and skimming the first page.

"ME says we'll want to come see this for ourselves."

Carlton arched an eyebrow but stood when she did and headed for the door.

Once they were outside and away from the busy front entrance he said, "Head's up!"

She turned and caught the keys he tossed her on reflex.

"Really?" she said.

He shrugged. "I don't _always_ have to drive."

The tip of her tongue poked out, her teeth biting gently down on it. It was only something she did when she was thinking very bad things and it made him grin every time.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, and climbed into the car.

He blew out a breath. He really, _really_ hoped she would.

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Okay, I'm PRETTY SURE that this is it for now.

I hope.

REVIEW, PLZ & THX! :D


	4. Roses Are Red, Chocolates Are White

Re-read something I wrote for Lu and the Jassie!Muse popped up and said that it gave her an idea...Ah well.

**Summary:** One-year anniversaries deserve a very special gift. Which is not making out, though that's pretty nice too.

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She can hear the whispers and see the skipping glances and her brow furrows as she looks down at herself to make sure she didn't forget her bra or spill her coffee or something.

Nope. She looks fine.

And then she's being pulled into a hug and twirled around like a two-year-old and she can't help the surprised, "Whoa!" that is startled out of her. She grasps at the arms across her stomach, but she's set down before she has to really worry about being flung off into a wall and she turns to see Shawn grinning madly at her.

"Congrats, Jules," he says and ducks in to brush a kiss against her cheek. She rears back and gives him the hairy eyeball and he just laughs and turns her around, his hand on her shoulder giving her a gentle push.

She is still wondering what the hell is wrong with him when she sees it on her desk: A crystal vase filled with two dozen white and red roses, wreathed in baby's breath and tied with a ribbon, sitting in the middle of her blotter. A heart-shaped box is propped up against the base, tied with another ribbon. She blinks, jaw hanging open and she knows that she looks like an idiot, but she can't quite get her brain to work.

Especially since there's only _one_ person who could have possibly sent her these and he's not exactly prone to public displays like this.

She steps closer but can't help the wary scan for anything odd or blinking or vaguely shaped like a bomb. The card is tucked into a plastic holder and she slips it free and examines the blank envelope before flipping it over to pull the card out.

_Juliet,_

_Happy anniversary._

He signed it with a heart. What the hell?

She looks up at his desk and sees her partner studiously focused on his computer, typing away.

She barely contains the wild grin and smooths down her skirt before she walks over—shutting down Shawn's happy dance over to the side with a glare before someone _notices_ and puts two and two together.

He gives her a thumbs up and a grin and—thankfully—turns to head off Chief before she can interrupt with a new case. They don't start officially working for another seven minutes. It can wait.

Juliet crosses the last few feet to his desk and pauses for a moment until he glances up at her.

"O'Hara? Great, you're here. Did you get the file on the Benders' Auto bloater?"

He sounds so damn casual and it irks her for a moment that he can so completely shut off at work. She doesn't want to get caught, but she'd like to not be the only one struggling to contain herself. Her irritation, however, is not enough for her to change her game plan.

"Carlton, can I talk to you for a moment?"

He half turns and focuses on her.

"Of course."

She jerks her head to the side and starts walking. He rises and follows, brow furrowed, but not questioning aloud.

They disappear into the conference room—thankfully the blinds are all closed—and as _soon_ as she hears the door click shut, she turns—-and finds herself in a deep, toe-curling, back-arching, mind-melting kiss.

His hands are on her ass and it's a good thing or she'd be on the ground right about now. He maneuvers them around so he can sit on the edge of the table, but doesn't let go the entire time. She just leans her weight against him and enjoys the feeling of all that contact, even if it is dampened by clothing.

She doesn't want to stop, but she's getting light-headed and she's not sure it's _just_ that intense feeling that curls in her belly pretty much all the time now.

They break apart and he's got his cheek pressed to hers as he pants for the oxygen they were depriving each other of. She shifts so she's half sitting in his lap and has got her nose tucked under the edge of his suit coat and inhaling the scent of his cologne and aftershave and soap all mixed together with the underlying musk that is purely him.

If she could bottle that, she'd be a millionaire.

"You make me crazy, Juliet," he murmurs into her hair, then brushes his lips over the silken strands. "You know we can't do this."

"You attacked _me_," she points out, but the melted honey quality of her voice says she didn't mind at all.

"My point exactly," he says, and she can feel his need to pull away. She tightens her grip and after a moment and a sigh, he relents and stays where he is.

"The roses are beautiful," she manages after a few more moments and he grunts out a laugh.

"Tell that to Spencer. He thinks he's funny."

She looks up in surprise. "You didn't..."

He grins that sexy, predatory smile of his and she bites her lip to suppress the moan—though she can't do anything about the shiver that ripples up and down her spine.

He leans forward and nuzzles her ear, then kisses the lobe, sucking it into his mouth after a moment and thoroughly working it over, catching her earring in his teeth and giving a gentle tug.

She gasps and has to grab his arms to keep from falling again.

One last flick on her lobe with the tip of his tongue and he lets go. "I did get you something for our anniversary, but it's at home waiting for you."

She leans forward to rest her forehead on his shoulder and grins, bringing one hand up to toy with his tie.

"Well then we should go get that case from the Chief and start working so we're not stuck here late tonight."

"Probably," he mutters, but he just spreads one of his hands along her neck and nudges her jaw up with his thumb until her head is tilted back. He dots kisses along her jaw until he's back at her lips and he devours her mouth in a way that has her wrapping her arms around his neck and forgetting completely about cases or psychics or presents waiting at home.

There's a half knock and then the door is opening. They jerk apart, but he just glances up and upon seeing who it is, swoops back down to deepen the kiss. It's not until it shuts again and she hears Shawn say, "Just please tell me that when I open my eyes I'm not going to be seeing any skin I wouldn't normally see," that she can relax.

Carlton growls and breaks off the kiss. She turns around, but Shawn is just standing there with one hand up to block his view, his eyes squinched shut, and a folder in the other hand.

It's yanked free and flipped open and Shawn dares to peek, lowering his hand and opening his eyes fully when he sees the coast is clear.

Juliet should really be joining her partner in scanning the file, but she's going to need just a second to scoop up her brain that's melted onto the floor and pour it back into her skull—and to put out the fire on her cheeks at being caught, even if it's Shawn and he's more than well aware of their relationship.

A napkin appears in her line of sight and she takes it and looks at Shawn, wondering where she needs it.

"No, you look fine. Reapply your lipstick and you're good to go. It's for him," he says and waves a finger at Carlton—who is, indeed, sporting a very interesting shade of Rougey Merlot on his lips. She looks back at Shawn and he puts up his hands. "I will do a lot for you two lovebirds, but I am so not going there."

She chuckles and steps forward, taking her lover's chin in her hands and wiping away the evidence as he splutters in confusion for a moment before he realizes what she's doing.

One last soft kiss and then she lets him go to return to the file.

She passes Shawn to get to the trashcan and gives his arm a squeeze. "Thank you for the flowers," she says.

"That wasn't actually my gift to you," he says.

She frowns and Carlton says, "I saw you put them on her desk, Spencer."

"Oh, no, the flowers and chocolates were from me, but that wasn't my _gift_. Just the delivery method."

They both look at him with questioning expressions and he grins. "You're gonna wanna check your tie before you go out, Lassie," he says as he backs toward the door. "It's just a little loose and crooked." He winks and snaps his fingers as he clicks his tongue, then ducks out of the room.

They exchange a look and then she's chuckling and he's looking vaguely affronted and both of them are blushing.

"That little—"

"Oh Carlton, stop complaining. I don't know why we expected anything else from him," she says. She wants to kiss him again, but that would probably lead to them not getting any work done at _all_ today and instead takes his hand. "Besides, it was a pretty nice way to start the day."

He can't deny that and acquiesces with a bob of his head to the side.

Oh screw it, she thinks and grabs his tie, dragging him down for one last deep kiss. She pulls back to see him blinking dazedly, fixes his tie, and says, "I need coffee."

She's out the door and he's left to stare and blink and clear his throat.

o.o

When he goes back out to the bullpen and finds Juliet choking on a laugh, he joins her at her desk and she shows him the note that was tucked into the inside of the lid of the chocolate box.

_Roses are red,_

_Chocolates are white,_

_Have fun you crazy kids,_

_Just make sure you hide the bite(s)!_

He scowls and then looks at the box. Instead of an arrangement of squares as one might expect, there are a row of thin plastic tubes with labels that indicate they contain chocolate in the gamut of flavors from dark to bittersweet to milk to white. He's torn between wanting to snarl and not thinking too much about the purpose of chocolate packaged in such a way when he still has an entire workday ahead of him.

Juliet just takes the note back and gives him a grin he sincerely hopes no one else is seeing or they are so going to get caught. "We _really_ need to get that case done," she says as she closes the box back up and tucks it in her bottom desk drawer.

He blinks rapidly and clears his throat and nods. "Right. Case."

When Shawn joins them a few minutes later, smirking like the cat who ate the canary dipped in cream, Carlton wants to punch him in the face, chocolate pencils or no.

Juliet speaks up, asking about the case and it's with a great deal of self control that Carlton refocuses on work.

He'll figure out how to _thank_ Spencer later.

But first maybe he and Juliet will give those chocolate pencils a try...

* * *

Shawn and Lassie are both very naughty boys. *smacks them*

Review, plz&thx.


	5. Sleeping With Justice

Summary: As his house, they never get any further than sleeping.

* * *

As his house, they never get any further than sleeping.

It sort of makes sense, seeing as his house is closer to the station and most of the time they end up there because they're so exhausted from working late that it's all they can do to get in the front door and to the bed.

That's how it happened the first time, actually.

They were up until four processing the paperwork on their latest catch and as they were _finally_ leaving the station, he noticed Juliet was swaying enough that she'd probably get booked on a DWI or in a serious accident if she tried to drive. He'd been too tired for speech himself, though alert enough to maneuver the four streets between the station and his house, so he just snagged her hand and tugged her toward his car.

She didn't protest any more than a blink and a soft sigh.

She was unconscious—and damn cute—as soon as her butt hit the seat. He arranged her limbs more comfortably, dared to stroke her cheek briefly, then shut the door and rounded the car.

He was pretty sure she _still_ wasn't conscious as he guided her up the walk and through the house to his bedroom. He deposited her limp form on the bed and stepped back to strip off his suit. Her paused for a second in the process of undoing his shirt buttons to stare at her, vaguely wondering if he should remove her clothes as well.

Unfortunately, he wasn't able to process any reason more salacious than she would be uncomfortable and her suit would get all wrinkly.

He glanced at the clock, swallowed back an undignified whimper at the fact that his alarm would be going off in less than two hours, and finished undressing. She was semi-cooperative as he did the same for her, his brain not even able to perk up slightly at the cotton candy pink lace ensemble hiding under her clothes.

With a tired sigh, he finally fell into bed, slinging one hand over her stomach. She rolled into him, snuggling up and wrapping herself around him, then stilled completely. He joined her in the time it took to blink.

o.o

He woke to sunlight streaming into his face and frowned, not quite coherent enough to figure out what was wrong, but knowing it all the same. Then he saw the rumpled, but empty pillow next to him and shot up straight to the spinning room of a headrush.

When it cleared, his other senses were beginning to kick online and he smelled food cooking and heard movement from the direction of the kitchen. He padded out and stopped cold, hand halfway through wiping down his face, at the sight that greeted him.

Juliet was wearing his dress shirt from the night before and a pair of his socks to protect against the cold of the wood floor, hips swaying as she danced to the song she was softly singing, eyes focused on the eggs in the pan before her. Her hair was messy and wild in loose waves around her head and she didn't have an ounce of makeup on.

She was beautiful and perfect and what the _hell_ was she doing with him?

Then she spun, skillet in her hand as she turned to bring the eggs to the plates on the counter, grinning when she saw him, cheeks darkening slightly the only sign she might be embarrassed at being caught. She kept singing though as she nudged the eggs onto the plates with the spatula, then replaced the skillet on the stove and flipped it off.

She crossed the floor, sliding a little, and wrapped her arms around him, pushing up on her toes slightly to meet his lips in a kiss. Fresh mint from his toothpaste that she'd obviously borrowed tingled on his tongue.

"Morning, Carlton," she said.

"Morning," he grumbled, voice rusty from sleep. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Good morning, Juliet."

She kissed him once more, then danced away, hips swinging back and forth as her arms moved upward in her dance.

He could do nothing but shift his weight to the side to lean against the jamb and watch the show. His favorite part was _probably_ when she bent to retrieve the bacon from the oven, but he wasn't going to tell her that. She added slices to each plate, moved them to the table, and retrieved the pot of coffee and two mugs, then cream and sugar already in place.

Then she glanced at him with a half smile. "Are you going to join me, or would you prefer to just watch?"

He jumped and straightened. "No, I... Um..."

She laughed and came over, bopping up to kiss him, then taking his hand and pulling him to the table.

It wasn't until he sat down and came within line of sight of the clock that he _finally_ realized what was wrong.

"Dammit! We're late!"

He started to rise again, but she just laughed—_laughed—_and took his wrist and pulled to get him to sit back and said, "No, we're not."

He looked at the clock again to confirm that it did indeed say that it was almost _ten_ and then back at her.

She had that grin again, that impish one that made him think she'd been damn adorable—and incorrigible—as a child, and said, "Carlton, what day was yesterday?"

He scowled, then looked at the calender. "Thursday."

She laughed and tugged on his hand again. "I thought so too. Until I got a call from Davis from processing this morning. Apparently, we put the wrong dates on all of our paperwork and we owe her lunch for fixing it for us."

He opened his mouth to protest, then looked at the calender once more.

Monday they'd been assigned the case. Tuesday had been full of more interviews carried over from Monday. Wednesday was at the morgue and downtown talking to store owners. Thursday was...

"Thursday was in court. For the Williams case from last month," he said, sinking back into his seat.

She nodded, still grinning. "Which means yesterday, the day we caught Sandoval, was Friday. Making today Saturday." She pushed his plate toward him with a finger. "So eat up. We've got to take Davis her lunch, then I thought we might catch the Bruce Lee marathon the old cineplex is running."

He blinked one more time, then returned her smile.

* * *

Review, please and thanks.


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